Rose (5 page)

Surprisingly, I’m out soon after my head touches the pillow. Visions of the broken woman next door to me haunt my dreams, as does the realization that tonight is the start of something that neither of us may be prepared for. We've danced around each other for nearly a year. I've been attracted and drawn to her natural charisma and sassy attitude from the beginning but have been determined not to get involved. Seeing her so despondent tonight hasn't changed my opinion of her.
She's still incredible.
Is tonight the start of something for us?
Should I be running and screaming, "Danger, Will Robinson?"
I'm not sure I'm ready to trust a woman with my heart again. Perhaps after dealing with her father, she can't trust hers either. A perfect storm can’t be stopped, though. You can only hold on and try to ride it out—hoping you’ll survive the aftermath.

I
feel it building
. I panic as I try to control my breathing.
No! Don’t let me have an attack in Max’s house. What if he hears me?
But as usual, the man upstairs is busy and I’m on my own. I push up from the bed and stagger into the bathroom. I begin opening drawers, trying to find a bag of some sort, but there is nothing. My breathing is becoming more rapid, and I’m seeing spots by the time I make it to the kitchen. In some part of my mind, I’m grateful Max left a light on.

There is no time to be picky. I upend some bread and use the plastic wrap to breathe into. I sway on my feet, afraid I’ve left it too late this time, but the dizziness finally begins to abate and the dots before my eyes are slowly clearing.
Thank God.
I lean against the counter for another few minutes until I’m feeling more under control.

That’s when I see it—a knife sitting in the sink.

It’s not that I’m scared. No, it’s exactly the opposite. The hand still holding the bag shakes as I focus intently upon the sharp, stainless steel blade. I need it—so fucking badly. More than I ever have before.

Suddenly, it’s in my hand. I have no conscious thought of moving, but I must have. The one thing that has chased the worst of the shadows from my life. The sharp relief that it brings will push the bad thoughts away—at least for now. Lia told me several months ago about Lucian’s battle with cocaine and how proud she was that he had gotten help for his addiction. She’s also mentioned he hadn’t wanted Lia to know because he’d felt ashamed that she was dealing with all that had happened in her life without a crutch while he was not. And that was almost exactly the same reason I’d never told her about my cutting. It made me feel weak and embarrassed, and it was so far from the image I’ve worked hard to present to the world. Rose Madden was a strong, kick-ass woman, not a scared girl who resorted to self-harming to cope.

I am falling apart, though, and fear I will have a complete breakdown unless I can divert my attention. I’d once read that your body can only process one pain source at a time, and over the years, I’ve found that to be true. If I’m suffering from emotional pain, then I can mask it by cutting. A thin line between my thighs can provide as much relief as Vicodin. Sure, the pain from the incision hurts, but it’s a different type of discomfort. Strangely enough, I equate it to a good spring cleaning. It clears the cobwebs and allows me to enjoy the space within and around me once again. Am I rationalizing? Almost certainly, but it works. The network of silvery scars left behind is just collateral damage.

That first nick of the razor had been an accident. My father’s criticism had taken its toll, and it had happened while rushing through my shower before dinner. His cruel words about tardiness last night hit me again.
Does he really despise me this much?
Watching that thin line of blood trickle down my thigh had … settled me. Soothed. By the time I was getting dressed, I’d completely forgotten about my earlier upset. From something so seemingly innocent had been born a dark secret that I had managed to keep from everyone in my life except Jake.

Clutching the knife at my side, I creep silently back down the hallway, careful not to wake Max. I don’t know what I would do if he stopped me now. I’m already anticipating the feeling of solace as the blade slices into my flesh. I’ve committed and justified it. I never change my mind when that happens.

I shut the bedroom door and then walk straight into the bathroom. As a precaution, I tug Max’s shirt over my head, not wanting to accidentally ruin it. I’ve learned that bloodstains are almost impossible to remove. I unroll a length of tissue paper next and then find a spot on the cold, ceramic tile where I can easily spread my legs. It’s not lost on me that I approach this routine almost clinically. It’s so engrained in me that it’s as if I’m on the outside observing someone else.

The knife feels unfamiliar in my hand as I tighten my grip on the handle. I normally use a razor or sometimes a needle. I probe my skin, looking for a location that isn’t riddled with scars. Finally, I find a relatively smooth area near the crease of my leg. The skin is thin and more sensitive there but also tends to bleed more.
Perfect.
It’s harder to gauge the depth in a fleshy area. I lower the tip of the blade, making a small incision. A thin line of crimson wells up, and I watch it idly, waiting to see if it will trickle down my leg.

After what seems like forever, a small amount of blood breaks free from the cut, making a tiny downward track. I frown.
There should be more blood. I need more blood.
I barely feel the sting from the nick. There isn’t enough pain to quiet my racing thoughts. The blade must have been duller than I thought.

So I move it a few inches over and go deeper this time. “Shit,” I hiss as it slices through my skin like butter. There is no waiting for the results this time. I see blood before I can even remove the knife. I can only stare, riveted by the vivid red against my pale skin. Then fear hits as I realize that I’ve cut deeper than ever before.
Fuck!

The blade clatters to the floor as I grab Max’s shirt from the floor and attempt to stop the bleeding. “No, no!” I repeatedly chant as panic seizes me. I’m dizzy, but I can’t get up to look for my bag from earlier. “Max,” I croak out, barely aware that I’m calling for him. “Max, help me!” I sob one more time, not thinking there is any way he can hear me. But then the sound of the bedroom door slamming open reaches me and there he is.

“Rose! Fuck, what happened?” He drops to his knees and begins running his hands over me, beginning at my neck. I have no idea why he’s looking for an injury there since I’m holding a shirt to my leg.

“I cut myself,” I wince as my injury throbs. There is nothing but the sounds of our rough breathing in the room. Then he seems to freeze. I look up and see the exact moment he spots the knife I’d tossed to the floor.

“Why?” he murmurs quietly almost as if he’s talking to himself. I’m so tired that I’m having a hard time keeping pressure on the cut. I’m crashing the way I sometimes do after the high of cutting begins to ebb. My hand slips, pulling the T-shirt away.
So much blood.
Which seems to jerk him into action. He opens the cabinet behind him and grabs another towel, holding it firmly against me. In a strained voice, he asks, “Did you do this to yourself?” Before I can answer, his attention is drawn to the myriad of scars running up and down my thighs. He swallows visibly. “Oh baby, what’ve you been doing to yourself?”

Silent tears of shame roll down my face, dripping onto my chest. This is it. The time has come. Someone else knows my secret. Confident, carefree Rose is a fraud. Her mommy and daddy pick on her and she’s too weak to handle it. I attempt to cover the evidence with my hands, not wanting him to see any more than he already has. “Don’t look,” I say huskily. “Please, Max, I’m so ugly.”

He raises his other hand and runs it soothingly down my face until he’s cupping my wet cheek. “Shhh, you don’t need to hide from me. I see nothing but a beautiful woman who is hurting. Let me help you. We’ll go to the hospital for stitches and then—”

“No!” I say in near hysteria. “I can’t go there. They’ll see—”

He seems to understand what I’m trying to say, even though my words are garbled. “Honey, the cut looks pretty deep. It needs to be stitched up.” I shake my head frantically, and he stares at me seeming lost in thought. Finally, he takes one of my hands and puts it on the towel. “Keep pressing tight while I get my phone. I have a friend who should be able to help us out.” He is back almost immediately. He hands me another T-shirt, and that’s when I realize I’m completely naked. Without saying anything, he drops his hand to hold the towel in place, while I pull the shirt over my head.
Of course, he doesn’t want to see me naked.
Could his rejection be any louder?
Especially now that he knows the truth about me. Rose, the fraud. When I’m finished, he pushes a few buttons on his phone. “Matt, there is a guest at my house with a cut that needs stitching.” He nods once, and then says, “Thanks, man. I owe you.” He ends the call and tosses his phone down onto the floor. “He’ll be here soon.”

“But who was that and why would they come at well after midnight without any real explanation from you?”

He looks down at his hands and appears to be carefully choosing his words. “I’ve known Matt for about ten years. He’s a good friend and just happens to be a surgeon.”

“And he agreed to help me, just like that?” I ask incredulously.

Looking solemn, he says, “I’m not the type of man who asks for many favors, Rose, so Matt knows this must be important.”

I glance around me, seeing the knife still sitting on the floor. “Um, do you think we could move to another room before he gets here?”

He surprises me by leaning forward to drop a kiss on my forehead. “Of course. Hold tight to the towel,” he instructs as he gets to his knees before sliding his arms under my knees. I don’t even think to protest. Instead, I wrap my free arm around his neck and hang on as he swings me easily into his arms and gets to his feet. “We’ll go to the kitchen. The light is probably best there. Do you—need some underwear?”

Is it my imagination or is his neck slightly red? It’s hard to believe that anything would embarrass the tough lawyer. I’m happy for the distraction, though, as my leg continues to throb. “Do you have a supply of women’s panties?” I ask, trying to sound playful, even though I’m strangely jealous at the thought.

He chuckles, shaking his head. “No. Sorry, honey. I was thinking more along the lines of a pair of my boxer briefs. They’ll be too big, but it’ll give you some … covering for now.”

Then it hits me. My bare ass is resting on his arm. Holy shit.
I’m freaking out over that when he caught me cutting my leg? Unreal.
My face is hot as I mumble, “Oh, um, that would be great.”

He lowers me gently onto a chair, then leaves to find some underwear. He comes back, handing me a pair of blue boxers that are silky soft to the touch. “Wow, these feel better than mine.” My gaze automatically drops to his crotch area as I imagine him wearing them. I have no idea how it’s even possible for me to have such thoughts after everything that has transpired in the last eight hours, but something about Max makes me forget about how screwed up I am. Maybe that’s why I’ve always been drawn to him. My father uses his strength to intimidate and control, but instinctively, I know Max is different. He’s every bit as strong and determined, but he would bring out the best in the woman by his side, not attempt to crush everything that she is. Have I inherited my weakness from my mother? Or has my father crushed me too?

Max turns his back while I gingerly put my feet in the boxers before standing awkwardly to pull them up. They are big but comfortable. I fold the fabric back to expose my wound before sitting back down. We both jerk when the doorbell rings. “That’ll be Matt,” Max says before going to escort his friend in. I find myself cringing when Max returns with a man who could pass for Brad Pitt. I attempt to smooth my hair down self-consciously before I realize it will hardly matter. He’s going to see the mess I’ve made of my legs. I doubt seriously he’ll give a damn if I’m disheveled. He’ll probably think it goes with the disaster that I am inside. Max comes to stand behind me, putting a supporting hand on my shoulder. “Rose, this is Matt Foster.” We shake hands briefly as Matt stares at me with eyes that seem to see into my very soul. Something about him says he’s seen too much. Energy literally flows off him in waves, but there is also world-weariness in his expression that makes him just as human as the rest of us.

He pulls a pair of glasses from his jacket pocket, and I can’t stop the grin that briefly curves my lips. He gives me a wry smile in return. “One of the many downsides of getting old,” he says lightly. I would estimate he is no more than forty, but he could easily pass for someone younger. Like Max, the hint of muscle flexing as he moves says that he takes care of his body. I wonder idly if there is a Mrs. Foster and think that if so, she’s a lucky woman. He goes to the sink and washes his hands before coming back to where I’m sitting. “Now, let’s see the cut that Max spoke of.”